


Crowley, Big Bad Demon, Can Keep His Cool Around His Crush

by underearth



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), I use other keyboard smashes for once, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Multi, No beta we fall like Crowley, Touch-Starved, and hoo boy he's gonna get one!, because I'm projecting, he's a gay mess and we love him for it, its October and I'm still on my good omens bullshit, not a ngk to be found, obligatory holding-hands-on-the-bus fic, oh would you look at that, or a man-shaped-being-who's-attracted-to-another-man-shaped-being mess, they hold hands and im not over it yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-01-04 09:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21195212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underearth/pseuds/underearth
Summary: Spoiler alert: no, he can't.Later, he’ll blame it on exhaustion. It probably was mainly that, along with the horrible feeling of adrenaline still cooling in his veins, making his entire body shake, and the incoherent screaming in his head.But in the moment, Crowley really can’t say what made him take Aziraphale’s hand and pull him onto the seat next to him.





	1. The Wheels On The Bus

**Author's Note:**

> I'm addicted to this series, book, and radio show. My life has become Good Omens, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
> 
> I wrote this in a day, when I absolutely should've been doing homework, or at least working on the three other very big wips I've got, but  
well  
it happened. 
> 
> anyway, this all just formed very easily, and it was a needed reprieve from the multi-chapter wolfstar fic I've been writing for months that, for some reason, just doesn't flow right.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re holding hands.
> 
> Crowley, demon, is holding the hand of Aziraphale, angel.

Crowley is _tired_.

It’s been a long day. Hell, it’s been a long 11 years. Every second since he delivered the Antichrist has felt like weight on his shoulders, slowly building up over time and crushing his spine.

But one could say that today has been especially rough. From murdering a colleague, losing one of the only things that matters to him, getting that one thing back, holding a Bentley together with sheer force of will, stopping _time_, facing _Satan_… well… it’s not been easy.

Later, he’ll blame it on exhaustion. It probably _was_ mainly that, along with the horrible feeling of adrenaline still cooling in his veins, making his entire body shake, and the incoherent screaming in his head that, if translated into something vaguely resembling English, would be something along the lines of: _Aziraphale, Aziraphale, wings, Satan, burning, book, Aziraphale. _

But in the moment, Crowley really can’t say what made him take Aziraphale’s hand and pull him onto the seat next to him.

It’s less taking Aziraphale’s hand and more gently clutching his fingers, but Crowley did it without thinking and now Aziraphale’s _hand _is in his and Aziraphale isn’t pulling away and this is some of the most contact they’ve had sober in a very long time and Crowley is _losing his mind._ The touch is shooting through his body like… not like _fire_… more like electricity.

Aziraphale very happily follows Crowley onto the seat, plopping down next to him with a content sigh. Crowley expects him to take his hand back any second (he’ll be damned – again - if he lets go first) and tries very hard to appear nonchalant and casual, two things Crowley has never actually been, even if he seems it.

The bus lurches forward, and Crowley automatically tightens his grip on Aziraphale, panics internally for a split second, and loosens his hold so Aziraphale wouldn’t notice how much he _doesn’t want to let go._

Aziraphale’s fingers move a little, and Crowley prepares to snatch his hand back, to clear his throat and, as indifferently as he can, say something like _sorry, angel, brain’s not working right now_, when Aziraphale slips his hand further up Crowley’s palm and links their fingers together.

Crowley’s frantic thoughts sputter to an abrupt and somewhat violent halt.

They’re holding hands.

_Crowley_, demon, is holding the hand of _Aziraphale_, angel.

Huh.

He stares at their joined hands like he’s never seen limbs before in his life, and wonders if he did actually pass out and is now in the middle of a fever dream on the bus stop bench.

He looks at Aziraphale, then back at their hands, then Aziraphale, who’s staring straight ahead like he didn’t just… do _that_.

Well, ok then. If the angel won’t say anything about it, neither will Crowley.

He’s been touched before, of course he has. Hell is full of touching, the too-narrow halls allow for nothing but, and he’s been in fights. Sometimes Aziraphale’s jacket brushes his arm when they’re walking together. Freddie hugged him once. He’s been _touched._

Aziraphale has never really touched him with intent, though. There were the customary greetings, a handshake here and there (Aziraphale once kissed the air by his cheek, as was considered a polite greeting in that particular part of Europe. He then chattered on about how _it’s such a delightful new thing, Crowley, don’t you think it’s sweet?_ but Crowley was only half-listening, too busy focusing on willing the blood that was desperately trying to flood into his face back into the rest of his body.), and the occasional this-is-absolutely-necessary touches, like that time Crowley almost fell off a train in Moscow. They don’t speak about the train incident.

So, sue him, he’s blushing a little. Anyone would if their best friend, their sole companion through the ages, the love of their immortal life, just spontaneously held their hand after the world didn’t end. Not 24 hours after declaring that they _don’t even like you_, after rejecting any desperate attempts to stay together, and after a minor betrayal. (They will have words about Aziraphale keeping Adam’s location from him. The words will be Aziraphale apologising immediately, and Crowley forgiving him just as quickly, but they’ll have them.)

Instead of declearing his undying love, he squeezes Aziraphale’s hand, and leans against the bus window, fully intending to be unconscious for a while, mainly so his mouth won’t say things.

“My darling, you won’t be comfortable like that.” Aziraphale murmurs into Crowley’s ear. The murmuring alone is enough to make Crowley sweat like he’s standing on consecrated ground, but the new endearment blue-screens his brain.

(He _didn’t _get a commendation for inventing that particular colour, which he still thinks is unfair. Hell just didn’t understand the finesse of that project. Now, every time a human who’s dealt with a broken computer before sees that colour, they’ll be filled with rage, despair, and slight nausea.)

“Mnngh.”

“Yes, dear.” Aziraphale says in a placating tone as he gently reaches with his other arm to pull Crowley onto his shoulder. Crowley doesn’t resist, too exhausted and also still unsure if he’s imagining the whole experience.

He settles himself on Aziraphale’s side and tries to breathe in his scent. (Without making it obvious.)

It’s the same as always; a sweet smell that’s indescribable except for _home_. It’s the smell Crowley has been borderline addicted to for 6000 years; the smell Crowley would be able to pick out in a spice market. It’s _Aziraphale_, and while it’s often accompanied by other scents, such as wine, figs, tea, and most commonly in the past 200 years, old books and a _very_ nice cologne that’s recently been changed (yes, Crowley noticed, yes, he liked it, no, he wasn’t going to say anything about it), it’s the same as it was in Eden.

Crowley has the urge to smother himself in it, but that would involve sticking his tongue out to properly scent it, and probably _licking_, which he doesn’t think Aziraphale would appreciate at all.

Thank Someone he hasn’t made an Effort, or else this licking business would be leading down a totally different path.

Resisting the compulsion to stick his nose into Aziraphale’s neck, Crowley relaxes into the soft fabric underneath him and lets the rhythm of Aziraphale’s breathing (he’s alive he’s alive he’s alive) and the movements of the bus lull him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I love them.
> 
> So, this started off with just this chapter, but I couldn't fit a hug in there, and writing Crowley being comforted is self care, so yeah. There's more now!


	2. Put Your Head On My Shoulder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Thank you, angel.” Crowley says, voice filled with a softness he’s not in the mood to name. “I appreciate the apology, but you know, no harm no foul.” 
> 
> Aziraphale squeezes his hands. “I’m not done.”

"Crowley.”

“Nph.”

“_Crowley_. Come on, darling, our stop is coming up.” Crowley blinks his eyes open, and the florescent lights of the bus burn through his dark glasses.

The soft, slightly worn in fabric of Aziraphale’s coat rubs against his cheek. Crowley hums a little, and nuzzles it lightly, enjoying the feeling of the familiarity and comforting angelic scent.

Wait.

_Aziraphale’s _coat.

_Shit shit fucking shit._

He bolts upright, a little too quickly to be causal.

“Crowley? Are you ok?” Crowley pushes his glasses up his nose, feeling his face heating with embarrassment under his fingertips. He clears his throat, staring everywhere but the angel beside him.

“Ye—Yep.” He clears his throat again. “Sorry ‘bout that, angel. Guess I was more tired than I thought.”

“Of course you were, dearest, you had a long day. Come on, we’re almost there.” Aziraphale stands, and Crowley slides across the seat to follow him. He swings one leg over, and is about to swing the other, when he feels Aziraphale take his hand again. His head snaps up to look at him.

Once is fine, a fluke, easily excusable, but _twice_?

That’s unheard of.

Crowley doesn’t know what to do with this.

Aziraphale only offers him a soft smile in response to his slightly confused look*, and gently tugs on their joined (!) hands to pull him up.

*(The look on his face is more of a Look, like Aziraphale has grown two heads, four arms, and sixteen legs, but don’t tell Crowley that. He thinks he’s cool.)

Crowley follows him off the bus, slightly dazed, only pausing once while they both thank the very confused bus driver. He miracles a few hundred dollars into the man’s wallet out of sheer guilt.

“Oh, Crowley, did you--?” Aziraphale turns to look at him, almost blinding Crowley with a distractingly bright beam. “That was so _sweet_ of you!” They’re standing underneath a streetlight, and the warm glow lights Aziraphale’s hair like the halo he’s hidden in another dimension.

It’s ridiculous, honestly, the number of times this has happened in their history. It’s almost like reality bends unconsciously for him, lighting Aziraphale up perfectly to highlight the purity and divinity in him. To highlight all the ways he’s too good for Crowley.

They’re standing in a dirty London street, it stinks like a public bathroom, the breeze is just this side of too cold, and it’s horrible, really, and at any other time he’d feel nothing but discomfort and disgust, but Crowley can’t stop his useless, blackened heart from beating faster, positively overflowing with gooey feelings.

Aziraphale’s _beautiful_, just like he’s always been. Crowley has seen him in every way possible; bruised, battered, bloodied, drunk, sober, dressed to the nines, as a woman, as a man, and on one very interesting occasion, a barn owl, and he’s never once thought he wasn’t the most stunning being in existence.

Aziraphale is Crowley’s Divine, and by Go--_olly_, he wants to worship him. *

(No, not that that.) (Well. Maybe like that.)

*(And yes, that counts as blasphemy, but he’s a _demon,_ what else is he going to do?)

“—ley. Crowley! Darling, are you alright?” Aziraphale sounds a little concerned, which is probably a valid response, given that Crowley has been gazing at him with a lovesick look for about a minute instead of, you know, moving or talking or being normal in any way.

Crowley shakes his head free of the infatuated state, much like a dog shaking muddy rain off. “’m fine, let’s just go inside. I need a nap.” He says, already walking with as much confidence and swagger as he can right now in the direction of his apartment. Aziraphale is forced to move twice as quickly to catch up, still joined to Crowley by their hands. *

*(He _could_ just let go of Crowley’s hand, which he hasn’t done yet, but Crowley would rather drink the puddle of holy water and Ligur in his apartment than point that out.)

The doorman doesn’t even look at them as they pass, which is fine by Crowley, since he’s pretty sure he’s still bright red, not to mention covered in soot and smelling of melted plastic. 

It’s been a rough week.

The elevator ride is miraculously shorter than usual, he honestly isn’t too sure which one of them did that, but still manages to be thick with an awkward, heavy silence, filled with unsaid words.

He couldn’t tell you what words, since he’d honestly lost the plot around 3 days ago and doesn’t really know what’s going on, and Aziraphale being _this close _really isn’t helping clear his brain of static.

Currently, all Crowley wants to do is take one last nap before he’s inevitably killed by Hell, preferably while wrapped firmly around Aziraphale so he knows he can’t be getting into any trouble with burning bookshops or erratic witchfinders.

He might have to settle with just the nap, because he isn’t sure how to ask your sole companion, best friend, and love of your eternal life to be your cuddle buddy for the night before your respective bosses come to exact their revenge and finish you off.

The door opens for them without Crowley lifting a finger, and he’s about to stride straight through to his bedroom and pass out, when he feels his hand being squeezed almost desperately.

When he turns to look at Aziraphale, questioning eyebrow already in place, the unsettled look on the angel’s face knocks any thoughts about sleep out of the way and replaces them with anxiety and dread.

“You ok?” He asks.

Aziraphale is looking past him, into his apartment, the alert look on his face somewhat reminding Crowley of cats when they hear a noise in the distance.

“Angel. _Aziraphale_.” He shifts uncomfortably, feeling the looming panic already draining his fingertips of blood. “You’re freaking me out here, what is it?”

“Sorry, darling, sorry. It’s just—” Aziraphale pauses, still inspecting the darkness behind them. “I swear, I can smell something _holy_.”

“Oh, that. Yeah, that’s just the holy water.” This does _not_ have the desired effect of calming Aziraphale down, and instead, he yanks hard on Crowley’s arm, pulling him out of the doorway completely, letting it shut. “_Ow!_ What on bloody Earth was _that_ for, angel?”

“_What?_”

“_Holy water_, angel.” Crowley snarls, opening the door again. “It’s in one very concentrated spot, it’s fine.” Dragging Aziraphale along, he pushes into the apartment.

The smell of holiness is much stronger now they’re actually inside, and Crowley keeps his mouth tightly shut in the hopes of avoiding his tongue catching any of the smell.

He guides Aziraphale to the office, past the statue (and ignoring Aziraphale’s scandalised glare) and the plants. He carefully opens the door, because it would truly be ridiculous if he got killed by accidently stepping in a puddle of holy water he’d previously used to murder a colleague.

“Ew.”

“That about sums it up.” The remains of Ligur are still there, tar-black, bubbly, and frankly, one of the grossest things Crowley’s ever had the misfortune of looking at. “Could you, erm, you know.” He gestures vaguely with his hand, then hisses, “_Get rid of him._”

“Him?” Aziraphale frowns.

“Miracle first, questions later, the stench is _unbearable_.” Aziraphale nods, snaps his fingers, and suddenly Crowley can breathe properly again. The holy smell didn’t exactly hurt, just smothered him a little, making him feel like he was in a sauna. Whether that was legitimate or psychosomatic, he can’t say.

“Him?” Aziraphale queries again.

“Ligur.” Crowley says as he heads to the living room, taking Aziraphale with him.

“Ligur?” He echoes.

“Duke of Hell that was presumably sent to kill me.” Crowley slumps onto the sofa, sprawling in a position that would’ve been uncomfortable if he’d had the right amount of bones. “I just beat him to it.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale sits next to him, posture significantly more relaxed than usual.

They sit in silence for a few heavy beats, then both start talking at once.

“I don’t suppose—”

“Crowley, I—”

Crowley huffs a small laugh. “Sorry, angel, you go.”

“No, it’s ok, you go ahead.” Aziraphale smiles. “Mine’s a bit of a long one, anyway.

“I was just asking if you’d want a drink or something.”

Aziraphale nods. “That would be lovely, dear. Whatever you’ve got is fine, I’m not in a fussy mood tonight.”

Crowley gets off of the couch, and there’s a brief pause when he realises that he actually _has _to let go of Aziraphale now, if he doesn’t want to make things awkward.

So, he does, and turns away quickly to avoid looking at Aziraphale’s face, hating the feeling of the cool air on his palm.

He doesn’t have much in the kitchen _except_ alcohol, really, so he’s got plenty to pick from. He almost goes for a bottle of red he’d picked up in Italy sometime in the 90s, a decade or so before this whole Antichrist business began, but decides that if this is his last night of being alive, then fuck it, he’s going to get _hammered_.

When he returns holding two bottles of a very nice whiskey and two glasses, Aziraphale is still on the couch, fiddling with the edges of a scrap of paper as he reads what’s on it.

Crowley sits, pours two glasses, and offers one to him. “Here you are, angel.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale takes the glass, and stuffs the paper back into his pocket.

Crowley sips on his drink, enjoying the burn as it slides down his throat. “So, what were you going to say?”

“Right,” Aziraphale places his drink onto the coffee table in front of them without drinking any, then turns his body to face Crowley.

“I wanted to apologise to you, Crowley.”

_Oh_. Crowley shifts uncomfortably, thigh accidently brushing Aziraphale’s. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do.” Aziraphale takes the glass from Crowley, puts it on the table next to his own, and takes both of Crowley’s hands in his. It’s all very intense, and he isn’t really quite sure what to do with himself. “Crowley, I should’ve trusted you from the start. It was wrong of me to hide Adam’s location from you, and I am so, truly, sorry.”

_That wasn’t so bad_, he thinks. “Thank you, angel.” Crowley says, voice filled with a softness he’s not in the mood to name. “I appreciate the apology, but you know, no harm no foul.”

Aziraphale squeezes his hands. “I’m not done.”

“Huh?”

“I’m sorry for denouncing our friendship, for not being on our side from the very beginning, like I should’ve been. I’m sorry for pushing you away, all these years, when you’ve been nothing but _kind_ to me, and yes, you have, don’t deny it. I’m sorry for _lying_ to you.” He takes a breath. “I’m sorry for saying I don’t like you, Crowley, because I think that’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told you.”

“Hnn—”

“You’re my best friend too, and I’ve been treating you terribly all these years. That’s not fair to you, and I’m sorry.” Aziraphale continues. Crowley feels blood rushing to his cheeks, and he’d helpless to stop it in the face of whatever’s going on here.

People don’t _apologise _to Crowley. He’s fairly sure the only time ‘sorry’ has ever been said in his direction is from people who accidently bump into him on the street. He’s not sure if he likes it very much, but he’s very sure Aziraphale saying it while looking stupidly earnest is too much for his poor heart.

The thing is, although he appreciates the apologies, he doesn’t really need them. Aziraphale could rip out his heart and fill the cavity in his lungs with holy water, and Crowley would forgive him.

“_Angel_, you— I—” He sputters.

“You always put yourself out there, always made the first move, always made things _easier _for me.” Aziraphale barrels determinedly over his stammering. “I don’t expect you to forgive me right away, but I swear to you, Crowley, I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

The sound that comes out of Crowley isn’t exactly human, and it makes his face heat up even more, which probably matches his hair at this point.

Crowley yanks a hand out of Aziraphale’s grip, grabs his drink from the table, and downs it in one go. It refills automatically, and he swallows down that one too. Aziraphale doesn’t look offended by this, just waits patiently while Crowley tries to put his scrambled brain back together.

The glass clinks loudly when he puts it back on the table. Returning his hand to Aziraphale’s, he takes a deep breath. Although what he wants to say is more along the lines of I’d-let-you-kill-me-if-you-really-wanted-to, he knows that Aziraphale really, really needs his _forgiveness_ right now, for reasons he can’t quite fathom.

“I forgive you.” He says, staring directly at Aziraphale’s forehead.

Aziraphale doesn’t beam with relief like he was expecting, just gives a little sad smile like he knows exactly what’s going through Crowley’s head.

“Thank you, my darling.”

“They’re going to kill us tomorrow, angel.” Crowley sighs, slumping forward a bit. Aziraphale moves closer, letting him rest his head on his shoulder. One of Aziraphale’s hands leaves Crowley’s, instead moving to the back of his neck, thumb moving back and forth along his hairline and making sparks of electricity run down his spine. “I don’t think we have a lot of life left.”

“Actually,” Aziraphale reaches into his pocket, leaving Crowley’s hands cold. “I think I may have figured something out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still no proper hug :( 
> 
> it's coming, I promise! in the next chapter, I'm planning on them being in the bookshop, and that whole thing is just going to be mushy as hell.


	3. But That's No Excuse For The State I'm In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w: Crowley has a panic attack. 
> 
> Also, the attack is based off of my own experiences, and what I felt I needed at that time. idk if it's like that for everyone, and i also don't know where I'm going with this, but I guess if you also have experienced a panic attack, but this feels entirely different compared to yours, that's why.

Crowley steps out of the doorway of the Ritz into the night, enjoying the feeling of the cool air brushing his cheeks.

“What now?” Aziraphale asks from beside him as they begin walking in the vague direction of either of their places.

“I suppose you’ll want to go check your books. Make sure it’s all in order.” Crowley says, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Oh, yes. I’m rather looking forward to seeing all of young Adam’s additions, to be honest.” Aziraphale’s voice is fond, and Crowley can picture the exact smile he’s wearing right now without having to look.

“I’m not sure they’re the kind of books you’ll be very interested in, angel.”

“Maybe so. Either way, it was very kind of Adam to restore everything, wasn’t it?”

Crowley makes a sound, neither confirming nor denying. It _was_ pretty kind of him, but there’s something inherently wrong to him about calling the literal Spawn of Satan _kind._

He suddenly realises that they’ve walked past his street and are very definitely walking towards the bookshop. He thinks that he should probably say something, like a casual goodbye and a promise to meet up again soon, but Crowley has never wanted to do anything less in his life (apart from deliver the Anti-Christ).

Instead, he lets Aziraphale lead them through the streets of Soho that they know so well, on the ground that they walked before London was even a thought in a human’s mind.

They breezily chat about nothing of note, like the past 11 years have been entirely ordinary, and like the world didn’t just almost end, and like Crowley didn’t think Aziraphale was dead, and he was suddenly all alone in the universe, and that he’d lost the one living thing that really, _really_ mattered to him, his _raison d'être_.

At the bookshop doors, Crowley hesitates, wondering if Aziraphale is about to spout his usual “Well that was _lovely_, but it’s getting rather late isn’t? Must be getting on, re-shelving to do and all. Toodle-oo!” and then disappear for several weeks, leaving Crowley with nothing to do and no one to talk to.

Aziraphale barely pauses, eagerly pushing open (the very locked) doors and striding into his home. Crowley watches from outside as he looks around takes a deep, satisfied sigh.

Aziraphale turns, grin slipping only slightly when he sees that Crowley is still outside.

“Care for a night-cap? I believe we’ve earned it.” Aziraphale asks, looking so hopeful and cheery that Crowley couldn’t imagine refusing.

“Sounds good, angel. What’ve you got?” Crowley steps in, letting the doors shut behind him. Aziraphale chatters as he moves to through the maze of bookshelves to the backroom, but he can’t really distinguish the words he’s saying.

The bookshop looks exactly the same as this morning, but this morning, Crowley was distracted, focusing more on mimicking Aziraphale than taking in his surroundings.

It seems almost absurd for Crowley to be having a panic attack about the bookshop being on fire and Aziraphale being gone when he’s standing in it, can see that it’s very much _not _on fire, and Aziraphale’s voice floats over to him as he talks about a very lovely vintage, but here we are.

_Here we are_, he thinks sardonically as his knees shake.

He would very much like to follow Aziraphale, to shove these thoughts very deep inside himself then take them out on his plants later, but he finds that he really, really can’t.

His footsteps on the floors sound the same as they always do, the air is clear of smoke and burning books, and it’s only comfortably warm inside instead of… very, very hot, but Crowley can still feel the lick of flames against his legs and his arms, and he doesn’t dare to reach out and touch any of the books for fear that they’ll crumble to ash under his fingertips.

His legs, historically not known for being very good at their job anyway, finally give up the goose and crumble. His lungs burn with heat, drawing unnecessary deep gulps of air that, to his mind, smells of scorching paper.

The only sound he can distinguish is his own harsh breathing and the blood rushing in his ears. It’s ridiculous, because he can _see_, can see that the bookshop is very much not on fire, but then his vision blurs and he can see flames in the corner of his vision and--

Then there’s a presence, more words he can’t translate, and warm hands gripping his arms. At first, all it does is make him jolt, trying to get away, but then a palm brushes his forehead, and his breathing suddenly slows down, the air no longer stinging his insides.

“That’s it, deep breaths my love, deep breaths.” His hands are gently pried away from his thigh, where he realises he’d been digging into desperately, and placed against warm, solid fabric, and he feels it moving with deep, exaggerated breaths that he mimics. The sting from the torn flesh on his leg only pulses for a second before it disappears, leaving an ethereal tingle in it’s place.

They stay there, in the exact place Crowley thought his world had ended a little over 24 hours ago, and breathe together.

“Crowley?” The voice --_Aziraphale, he’s here, he’s alive_—asks, and he gives an affirmative grunt, still focusing on not letting his breathing increase. “Could you please look at me, darling?”

Unclenching his eyes, Crowley does as he asks. Aziraphale doesn’t look irritated, or politely uncomfortable with his outburst like he’d told himself to expect. His face is filled with concern, no, _caring_, which is hardly believable to Crowley. 

One of his hands is still held against Aziraphale’s chest, the other carefully grasped in Aziraphale’s own.

“Is it ok if I hug you?”

Crowley almost laughs. Aziraphale is asking, _asking_, to hug him. Asking! As if Crowley hasn’t dreamt of it for millennia, yearned for it in his worst moments.

When he gives a jerky nod, Aziraphale wraps both arms against him and practically pulls him into his lap*. Aziraphale holds him close, and Crowley buries his face into his neck, letting the feeling of the angel overwhelm him.

*(Which, coincidently, features in around 8 of Crowley’s fantasies, but he’s not exactly in the state of mind to be thinking about that kind of thing right now.)

“My darling.”

“Mmph?”

“Are you feeling safe enough to remove your glasses?”

A beat. Then two.

Crowley pulls back a little, enough to rip his glasses off and drop them to the floor. He intends to go back to where he was before, smothering himself in angel, but a gentle hand on his cheek freezes him in his tracks.

“Oh, my love.” Aziraphale murmurs, thumb wiping away the tear tracks on Crowley’s face. Crowley resists the urge shy away from the intensity, the burning gaze that feels as though it’s staring right into his empty soul. Aziraphale’s eyes look watery, and a flush of guilt for causing that oozes down Crowley’s spine.

Aziraphale pulls him close again, keeping one hand on his neck and the other on his back, rubbing comforting circles along his back.

“It’s ok, we’re here, we did it, Crowley, we did it.” Aziraphale says, voice as soft as he looks.

“Thought I lost you, angel. Couldn’t feel you anymor’.” Crowley confesses, feeling ridiculous and dramatic. He wants to apologise, pull himself back together and maybe wipe the memory from Aziraphale’s brain, then go back to sleep for another hundred years to let the embarrassment wear off.

Crowley is _pathetic_. Absolutely terrible excuse for a demon, and he was an even worse angel, so he’s not sure if there’s anything he could be good at being. He’s probably unnecessarily offloading on Aziraphale, making him uncomfortable. He shouldn’t be doing _this;_ this is not how it goes.

But Aziraphale squeezes him tighter. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m here, love, and I’m not going anywhere ever again, I promise. I’m always going to be here from now on, ok?”

He’s not sure how much time they spend there, so intertwined it’s as if they were never separate beings at all, before he pulls himself away.

Avoiding looking at Aziraphale, he awkwardly unfolds himself from Aziraphale’s lap and unsteadily stands up.

Clearing his throat, he says, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to…” He waves a hand at himself and the floor. “Get all weepy. It’s been a long week.”

Aziraphale stands too, brushing invisible dust off of his pants. He doesn’t say anything until Crowley, wanting to avoid all possible intense eye contact, grabs his glasses from the floor.

He’s about to shove them back over his eyes, which he’s sure are still fully that nasty acidic yellow, when Aziraphale stops him with a hand on his forearm.

“Crowley.” He freezes like a deer in headlights under the bright blue currently staring at him.

He’s slightly taller than Aziraphale, but on the rare occasion they make eye contact like this, not through tinted glasses or under a wave of alcohol, he doesn’t feel it. Aziraphale’s eyes have always made him off guard, unsettled him in the best way possible.

Looking directly into the angel’s eyes, holding his gaze, makes Crowley feels both entirely powerless and like the most incredibly powerful being in Creation at the same time.

“Ye-yeah?” His voice is too breathless, too awed to pass off, and he curses himself.

“Come into the backroom. I think we need to talk about something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did I say three parts? well, I'm a liar. 
> 
> I need a love confession and it doesn't fit right into this chapter, not without breaking the flow horribly (or at least in my own mind), so one more! and that's gonna be it, I promise. 
> 
> anyway, they hugged! for like, a long time. 
> 
> this is me projecting even more because tbh when I have panic attacks I could really, really use someone hugging me


	4. When You Kiss Me, Heaven Sighs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w: only a bit, but I suppose there's some surprise kissing? it only occurs after interest is explicitly stated, but permission isn't asked, and if any of y'all are uncomfortable with that, I just wanted to make sure you knew <3
> 
> (not beta read, so point out any mistakes!)

Crowley is _not _freaking out.

Why would he be? It’s not like his best -_only_\- friend and the being he’s secretly loved for around six thousand years just said they ‘need to talk about something’ after a spectacularly embarrassing meltdown.

Oh wait, it is.

And Crowley is absolutely freaking out.

Aziraphale is puttering around the backroom of the bookshop, gathering glasses and alcohol (thank _someone _there’s alcohol), seemingly ignoring the fact that there’s a demon on his couch having a nervous breakdown.

It’s not his fault, honestly; Crowley excels at disguising his nervous breakdowns. He’s had a lot of practice.

So, instead of turning into a snake right there on the couch (even though he _hates_ doing that), Crowley is sitting*, trying to frantically pick apart every moment of the past 20 years to see what he did to upset Aziraphale.

*(Yes, _sitting_, not very normally, mind you, but he’s still sitting in an unnervingly regular manner that would tip off someone who knows him exceedingly well, say, an angel, that something’s not right. Unbeknownst to Crowley, Aziraphale is _very_ aware of this, but is hoping that after they clear things up a little, he’ll be able to comfort his demon in a much more effective manner that he could in the past.)

“Crowley, dear, would you like a drink?” Aziraphale asks, already holding one out to him.

“Thanks.” Crowley replies, taking the drink gratefully. It’s a red, and a da—ble—_very_ good one at that, which is a shame, since it almost immediately is poured down Crowley’s throat.

Aziraphale sits down beside him, which, while not entirely unheard of, is just unusual enough for Crowley to need to pour himself another drink.

They sit in silence for a minute, Aziraphale idly sipping his wine*, Crowley clutching his glass and staring into it like it’s got God’s Plan written in it, before Aziraphale speaks.

*(It should be noted, dear reader, that Aziraphale is not doing _anything _idly at the moment. He is, in fact, majorly freaking out, but is trying very hard to not let it show because Crowley is nervous enough as it is.)

“So.”

“So?” Crowley fiddles with his glass. “What do we need to talk about?”

Aziraphale suddenly seems just as interested in the contents of his glass as Crowley was a few minutes ago. He swirls it around, then seems to come to a decision, nodding to himself a little.

“Crowley, we’ve known each other for a very long time, almost all of it, in fact, and I feel as though, no, I _know, _that I haven’t been fully honest with you for most of it.”

Crowley isn’t sure that he’s going to like where this is going.

“But you, my darling, you’ve been entirely honest for _all _of it. I can scarcely recall even one instance of you lying to me in six thousand years.”

_Crowley_ can. There was that time… Well, ok, it’s only happened _twice_.

“And, you know, after all that’s happened, it’s really incredibly unfair of me to keeping lying, so.” He stops. Aziraphale visibly frets, one hand fluttering around the button of his waistcoat.

“So, _what_, angel? You’re killing me here.”

Aziraphale then looks up, straight into Crowley’s (still bare, he realises belatedly) eyes, face filled with the determination that makes Crowley remember that he’s an Angel built for war.

“I love you.”

And, just like that, Crowley’s entire body is _on fire_, his useless, fucking _useless_, heart is pounding a million miles an hour, he’s dropped the wine all over the couch and _himself _and—

Oh, good _Lord_.

Right, ok, no need to overreact (more than he already has). He waves the glass back into his hands, and the wine back into the glass. He can’t, however, make his hands stop shaking.

“You—huh?”

Aziraphale doesn’t laugh, and his smile is more gentle fondness than amusement at Crowley’s flustering. “I love you. Well, to be more accurate, I’m _in _love with you.”

And, just like that, the wine’s gone again, and Crowley is shaking more than before.

“Darling, I don’t mean to distress you.” Aziraphale frowns slightly. “I was under the impression that you felt the same, but if you don’t, well I mean that’s perfectly alright—”

Crowley clambers over the small space between them (the wine glass thoughtfully disappears) and right onto Aziraphale’s lap (this wine glass, much like the other, decides that it should really be _over there_rather than here right about now), and halts that _ludicrous_ sentence coming out of his mouth by very firmly smashing their lips together.

It’s a bit too hard, one of Crowley’s legs is folded weirdly underneath them, he’s still covered in wine and shaking at a frequency that could be classified as vibrating, but it’s the best thing Crowley’s ever felt in his existence.

And _then_, oh, and _then_, Aziraphale wraps an arm around him, bringing them closer, pressing their chests together and making Crowley’s legs fall to either side of Aziraphale’s, and deepens the kiss.

And it’s perfect.

God, Satan, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, fucking _whoever_, it’s so perfect Crowley feels like he’s going to die.

After some time*, they pull apart, and Crowley tucks his head into Aziraphale’s neck, panting roughly. It’s not even the first time he’s done that tonight, but it’s just _such _a different context that he makes him laugh.

*(Roughly 35 minutes, but who’s counting?)

Aziraphale makes an inquisitive sound when he hears Crowley huff, and when he pulls back further to look at him, he’s smiling.

“I love you too, if you didn’t get that.” He jokes. He can feel his mouth stretching into a goofy, lovesick smile, but he neither is able to nor wishes to make it stop.

“Not sure I did, to be honest. Want to try again?”

Crowley laughs, bordering on hysterical, and leans in to oblige him.

It doesn’t feel real, the way he hums at his touch, eagerly pressing forward for more, and Crowley would think he’s dreaming or being tricked, but the hand on his back is reassuring, and the warmth from Aziraphale is so angelic, so pure, so _Aziraphale_, that he has no choice but to believe it.

“I love you.” He repeats in between peppering kisses all over Aziraphale’s face, pressing his lips against all the places he’s wanted to kiss for six thousand years. It makes Aziraphale giggle underneath him, and the joy that radiating off of the angel, to know that _he’s _making that happen, it gives Crowley a rush like nothing else, makes him giddy with sensation.

They stay like that for a while, kissing each other softly, then eventually they return to the wine, and to conversation that’s much like any other they’ve had, but only this time, this time whenever Aziraphale says something that makes Crowley want to kiss him, he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it! I'm actually stoked, honestly, and pretty proud of myself. 
> 
> I wrote this entire chapter in comic sans when I read that thing about how writing in comic sans makes it easier, and, to my absolute horror and disgust, it works! I felt the words flow so much easier, and unfortunately for me, I think I'll be using that tip again in the future. 
> 
> the ending started going on an entirely different, and much... *ahem* well let's just say mature rated track, and I, personally, am the least qualified to write that kinda stuff, so I had to rein myself in a little. 
> 
> hope you guys enjoyed! your comments have been so sweet and encouraging, I really appreciate all of you. 
> 
> also, since I'm pretty new to the whole ao3 thing, does anyone know how to go about getting a beta reader? I'm not a super regular writer, but I feel like I could really use someone to read over my stuff and not let me fixate on dumb shit. 
> 
> if anyone wants to hang out, I'm on Tumblr at edennovik, where I don't actually do anything at all, but might in the future. 
> 
> toodles!


End file.
